


Chaos Is What Killed The Dinosaurs, Darling

by Moonlightkitten



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), Heathers (1988)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Heathers, Alternate Universe - High School, Bulimia, But only if you've got a REALLY dark sense of humor, F/F, Faked Suicide, Humor, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Language, Murder, Period-Typical Homophobia, Suicide Attempt, Thirteen/River endgame, also probably because of all the murder, everyone is a hot mess, like so much language that this fic is rated m just for it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-14
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-06-27 13:37:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15686490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Moonlightkitten/pseuds/Moonlightkitten
Summary: When Jean Smith joins the most popular clique at her high school, the Ponds, she isn't expecting to be thrown into a world of coercion, betrayal, and murder. And shecertainlyisn't prepared to fall for the mysterious new girl, Missy, or the secretive River, both of whom have some deadly secrets up their sleeves.(Heathers AU-- Check the tags, mate; I don't want to be responsible for scarring anyone for life.)





	1. Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> If you're familiar with Heathers, this AU is based more on the movie than the musical.
> 
> If you're not familiar with Heathers, please read the tags and warnings, because this story is pretty dark haha.
> 
> Note: In this story, Thirteen/Missy is the main ship but Thirteen/River is endgame. Since this is set in 1989, there will be a lot of period-appropriate homophobia, although it will mostly resolve itself later on due to _events_ (no spoilers!) Also, keep in mind that River and Mels are not the same person; they're twin sisters. Enjoy!

_February 6 th, 1989_

_Dear Diary,_ Jean wrote with a frown, holed up in her hovel of a bedroom. _Mels told me that she teaches people real life. She said that real life sucks losers dry. If you want to fuck with the eagles, you have to learn to fly._

_I said, “So you teach people to spread their wings and fly.” She said yes._

_So I said, “You’re beautiful.”_

The telephone screeched suddenly, and she smeared ink all over her page. With a curse, she made a note in her diary to fix that stupid speaker. Groaning in frustration, she pulled it off the wall.

“Jean Smith speaking. How can I help you?”

Amy giggled on the other line. “Wow, so formal.”

“Come _on,”_ hissed Clara’s muffled voice. “We’re all waiting for you over at Pond’s house.” 

Jean sighed. “What is your damage, Amy? You ruined my…”

“God, I’m so sure,” Amy muttered. “Anyway, don’t blame me, blame Pond. She told me to haul your ass over here pronto. Back me up, Pond.”

“Right,” said Clara. “She really wants to talk to you.”

“Jesus, can you just call yourselves by your first names?” Jean replied, wrapping the phone cord a bit too tightly around her finger. Mels, Amy, and Clara, by some freakish coincidence, all shared the word ‘Pond’ in their names. Melody Pond, Amelia Pond, and Clara Bonnie Pond Oswald, to be precise. None of them were even related. And although they all possessed different first names, they insisted on calling one another ‘Pond’, for all purposes, all the time. It was very confusing. The cord began cutting off her circulation, and she noticed that her finger was tinted an ugly shade of purple. “Fine, I’ll be there soon.”

She was technically already dressed, but she found that, for reasons she didn’t really care to go into, she generally liked to look nice around Mels. The reverse, or something like it, was also true: Mels could not _stand_ slobs. Hastily, she did up the buttons on her shirt and slid on the blue blazer that the Ponds had collectively paid for when Jean had joined the clique three weeks ago. Given that her iron was also out of order at the moment, her skirt was a bit rumpled, but Mels tended to mess it up for her anyway. It was a nice skirt notwithstanding—the exact hue of the TARDIS, actually, which was probably why she liked it.

“Bye,” she shouted out for the whole house to hear, although Idris probably wouldn’t notice or care either way.

The TARDIS (Totally Awesome Radical Driving in Sherwood), the blue convertible which Jean had ‘inherited’ (stolen) at age ten, was parked sloppily in their driveway, probably owing to the fact that she had never once received a driving lesson. In fact, she was pretty sure that her driving examiner had been smoking pot before her exam, which was probably the only reason that she had passed. She didn’t _really_ need a license anyway (it wasn’t as though she had been driving with one before she turned sixteen. Besides, the police in Sherwood, Ohio were extraordinarily incompetent.)

She wrestled with the key for a minute, before attempting to back out and stalling the car twice. Dammit. The clutch was stuck again. She needed to add that to her ever-growing list of things to fix in her godforsaken house.

Dressed in her usual crimson getup, complete with the ever-present red scrunchie, Mels was waiting on the front porch of her house, along with the two other Ponds. As soon as the TARDIS pulled into her driveway, she practically threw herself on Jean, pulling the younger girl out of the car and up the stairs.

“Hello, Sweetie,” she murmured, smoothing Jean’s jacket. “Love your hair.”  

Amy huffed impatiently. “God, Pond, drool much? You a lezzo? Chill out.”

“Oh?” said Mels, whirling around to face her. “Since when do you tell me what to do? You’re not my mother, Pond.”

Sensing a fight brewing, Jean tugged insistently at Mels’s hand. “Just… why did you want to talk to me so badly? What are you trying to do?”

“You,” said Mels with a gleam in her eyes, and Jean’s heart nearly stopped. With a playful flick of her curls, she continued after a few seconds, “More specifically, I need your forging skills. In fact—” with deft fingers, she pulled out a wad of stationary and a small ballpoint pen. “Scented. I finally got a hand on one of Jack Harkness’s homework assignments. I need you to forge a hot and horny but realistically low-key note in his handwriting.”

Taking the paper, Jean frowned. “Who’s it for?”

“Bill Pothead,” chimed in Clara, grinning.

“Shut up, Pond,” hissed Mels, crossing her arms. “I’m talking. Anyway, it should go something along the lines of ‘hey beautiful, I’ve been thinking about you…”. You can improvise a bit. Then we’ll slip it onto Pothead’s lunch tray tomorrow.”

“Shit, Mels,” replied Jean, pushing the paper back into her friend’s arms. “I’ve got nothing against Bill Potts.”

“You’ve got nothing _for_ her, either,” replied Clara. “It’ll be Very.”

“So Very,” agreed Amy with a giggle.

God, why had Jean ever wanted to be a part of this clique? “I’ll think about it,” she said hesitantly, which was her way of saying _no._

“Don’t think,” Mels replied, pulling Clara forward by the collar. “Jean needs something to write on. Pond, bend over.”

“No,” said Jean slowly, testing out the word in her mouth.

“Come _on,_ Jeanie,” insisted Mels. “It’ll be Very. The note’ll give her… shower nozzle masturbation material for weeks.”

“Watch your mouth,” warned Amy.

“Not my mother,” she rejoined.

“Okay, okay, _fine!_ Where’s your sister, anyway? Haven’t seen her in days and I’m guessing that she's not too happy about you taking her stationary,” muttered Jean, taking out the pen and making a few practice strokes. Jack’s handwriting wasn’t particularly difficult. It was just _messy,_ full of scribbles and scratches that were challenging to authentically replicate. _Dear Bill,_ she began, a tendril of guilt twisting in her stomach. Clara shifted beneath her, and she accidentally made the comma too long.

Mels grinned. “River’s gone missing again, thank fuck. I’ll dictate. _Dear Bill, you’re so sweet…”_

 

* * *

_April 8 th, 1989_

_Dear Diary_. _I want to kill, and you have to believe it’s for more than selfish reasons. You have to!_

* * *

 

 

“…So, we just slip it on Bill’s lunch tray when she’s not looking, and voila! You can do the honors, Pond.” With a flourish, Mels handed the completed note to Amy, who set off across the lunch room.

 Poor Bill. Jean felt as though she were going to be sick. “I’m going to head to the restroom.”

“I’ll come with you,” said Clara, wiping off her fingers with the edge of her blazer.

“Oh, God,” said Mels. “Grow up, Pond. Bulimia is _so_ ’87.”

“Sorry, Pond,” Clara responded sheepishly, tucking her long hair behind her ears. “Can you help me out, Jeanie?”

That was code for _can you please clean up my vomit?_

“Okay,” agreed Jean reluctantly, mentally steeling herself. “A true friend’s work is never done. Maybe you should see a doctor.”

“Maybe.”

Across the room, they watched Amy slide the note onto an unsuspecting Bill’s tray. Dammit. Jean wondered if perhaps she could sneak over there and take it off without any of the Ponds noticing… Probably best not to try. Bill’s arm brushed against the slip of paper, and she looked down, curious.

“Stick around for this part,” said Mels, wrapping a hand around Jean’s waist. “This’ll be _so_ very.”

With a snort, Bill pushed out her chair and strode across the room, note in hand. They watched her say something to Jack, who took one look at the note and, in turn, burst into laughter. Then he shoved her lunch tray down onto the ground and snaked a hand around her ass.

“Get _away,_ freak!” Bill screeched, and the entire cafeteria turned to face her accusingly. Horror dawning slowly over her face, she burst into tears and fled the room. Jean looked away. Damn Ponds.

A distinctive face flashed in her peripheral vision, and she spun her head around. Her eyes finally rested on a tall girl, sitting perfectly straight in a chair at the other end of the cafeteria. _Where did she know that face from?_ The other girl raised both eyebrows, arms folded. Her pulse quickened.

“Come on, Jeanie,” said Clara’s voice from somewhere in the distance. “Aren’t you coming? I need your help.”

Reluctantly, she turned around, where all three Ponds were facing her with amused grins.

“Her name’s Missy Masters,” supplied Amy. “She’s in my Spanish class. Just moved here from London. You interested or something?”

Clara snorted. “Yeah, calm down, Jeanie. Don’t want to be mistaken for a dyke.”

Jean’s face flushed. “Right, sorry. Uh, can you help us out, Mels? Maybe hold back Clara’s hair or something?” 

Melody threw back her head and laughed. “Well, fuck me gently with a chainsaw. Do I look like Mother Teresa to you?”

The younger girl waited expectantly, and Mels frowned. “Go on, then. Don’t wait for me. Go take another look at today’s lunch.”

 

* * *

 

 

 _Goddamn, offing Pond would be like killing the Wicked Witch of the West. No, wait, East. West? God, I sound like a fucking psycho._

 

* * *

 

Clara retched into the toilet as Jean pulled back her hair. Her mind was elsewhere. Missy Masters… that name was familiar. Where did she know it from?

“I’m sorry,” whispered Clara, teary-eyed, wiping puke off her cheek. “I know I should stop eating so much. It’s just hard, you know? I’m so goddamn fat. I can’t control myself. I’m a pig.”

“Shh, it’s okay,” Jean responded, threading the other girl’s long tresses through her fingers. “You’re not fat at all. It’s not your fault. You really should see a doctor, you know.”

“Yeah, maybe.”

Maybe, maybe, maybe. That was all she ever heard from Clara about her eating disorder. Perhaps one day she would seek help—or end up in the emergency room. Obviously the former would be preferable, but Jean couldn’t help but think that the hospital was probably where Clara would be spending this summer if she continued at this rate.

Still shaking slightly, Clara pulled herself erect and flushed the toilet. “Can you find my toothbrush?”

Humming in agreement, Jean rummaged through her friend’s purse. _Missy Masters. Missy, Missy, Missy._

Wait. No, it couldn’t be.

Suddenly eager, she shoved the toothbrush in Clara’s hand. “Sorry, I’ve gotta check on something real quick. You’ll be okay without me, right?”

“Yeah, uh, I guess.”

 

* * *

 

 

Missy grinned ferally as Jean approached her, and she shivered.

“Greetings and salutations,” said the dark-haired girl, blue eyes gleaming. “You a Pond?”

“Uh, no. I’m a Jean. Smith,” she responded, taking Missy’s outstretched hand. A tingle shot down her spine, and she quickly withdrew it. “So you’re new to Westerburg?”

“Just moved to Sherwood, in fact.” The girl’s voice was distinctly Scottish, and she eyed Jeanie for a few moments before lighting up. “Jean Smith? As in Theta?”

So it _was_ the same Missy! Delighted, she grinned. “Right. And you were… Koschei?”

After her parents had died, Jean had lived in an orphanage in Manchester for about a year, where she had become fast friends with another girl about her age. They had done everything together, including inventing pet names for each other and kissing in the janitor’s closet. (What? They had been seven years old. Kissing a girl didn’t make Jean a lesbian. At least, she hoped not, because that could be quite a problem for her in Sherwood.) When Idris had adopted her, she had lost track of Kosch. The other girl didn’t have a fixed address or a telephone number, and besides, they now lived in different countries.

Missy seemed equally excited to see her, laying a hand on Jean’s forearm. “You know, I was so afraid to come here because I didn’t think I would know anyone in Sherwood. In fact, I haven’t had a friend in…”

She trailed off absently, before seeming to remember something and fixing Jean with a piercing stare. “Anyway, I’m glad to see you, love.”

Right. Okay, then. She opened her mouth to respond, but Mels’ hand suddenly clawed at her shoulder.

“JEANIE! Come _on!_ We’re ditching fifth to get ready for the Remington party tonight.”

“Uh, I have a quiz, though…”

“ _Jeanie!_ Haul your ass over to the car pronto!” Mels hissed, and Jean sighed.

“Bye,” she told Missy reluctantly. “Oh, do you want me to give you my number, or…”

“No need,” said the other girl, blue eyes flashing. “I’ll find you. That’s a promise.”

 

* * *

 

 

 “Do we have time for a game of croquet before we get ready?” asked Amy, scrambling after Mels, who was dragging Jean through the hallway by the hand. Clara, who was the shortest, stumbled behind all three of them.

Melody slid a hand around Jean’s waist. “Hell yes.”

“I call red!” Clara crowed, adjusting her emerald scrunchie, which was slipping out of her hair.

With an exasperated sigh, Mels whipped around. “The fuck, Pond? You _know_ I’m always—”

A gunshot sounded suddenly from the cafeteria, followed by two more. Jean screamed.

_Goddamn._


	2. She's my best friend. God, I hate her.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Ponds play some croquet, Jean meets Missy again, preparations for the big party are made, and the author learns that 'Chapstick' is apparently supposed to be capitalized. Fascinating.

“Oh, I don’t think they’ll _expel_ her,” said Amy, tapping her croquet mallet thoughtfully against her leather Burberrys. “They’ll just suspend her for a week or something. Or maybe even a couple days. Remember when Rose Tyler fucked up Saxon with that knife and nobody batted an eye?”

“That was different,” insisted Mels, who seemed brimming with anger from an unspecified source. “He _raped_ Rose. Little blue-eyed Scotty didn’t even have a motive, and she used a _real gun._ They should throw her ass in jail.”

Jean felt the sudden urge to defend her childhood friend. After all, she hated guns, but… Well, this was different. It had been a joke, hadn’t it? “Come _on,”_ she interjected, striking her ball with a mallet and missing her shot spectacularly. Frowning, she adjusted the blue bow in her hair. “Missy used blanks. All she _really_ did was ruin two good pairs of pants. Maybe not even that. You think that Saxon and Harkness are smart enough to figure out how to bleach out urine stains?”

“No,” giggled Amy, at the same time that Mels said stiffly, “Jack isn’t that bad. _Saxon_ is the asshole.”

“Agree to disagree,” murmured Clara from behind her large copy of Moby Dick.

Amy seemed to share her opinion. “Got the hots for Hark, Pond? You’d better cut that out. I don’t care if he’s a nice guy; anyone who hangs out with rapists doesn’t—”

“God, Pond, how many times do I have to tell you that you are _not_ my mother?” snarled Mels vehemently. With deft fingers, she slammed her mallet into the red croquet ball, sending it flying across the lawn and straight into Clara’s. “Jack’s my friend, okay? Taught me to hotwire cars and everything. Anyway, he and Sax just have a business arrangement, that’s all. They’re not _friends.”_

Amy snorted. “By ‘business arrangement,’ you mean they’re in the same gang.”

“Shut up, Pond.”

With sad eyes, Clara trudged across the lawn. “Why’d you knock my ball out? You didn’t _have_ to do that, Pond!”

Mels rolled her eyes. “Did you have a brain tumor for breakfast, Pond? First you ask if you can be red, knowing that I’m _always_ red, and then you get mad about me _playing the game?”_

“All she’s saying,” muttered Jean, “is that you could’ve just taken the shot, Mels, instead of knocking Clara out.”

“Huh, whatever.”

With a sigh, Clara lined up her mallet. The wicket was all the way across the lawn, twenty five feet away and across a large, circular fountain. Essentially, there was almost no conceivable way that she could make the shot.

“Go on, Pond,” said Mels smugly. “What are you waiting for, anyway?”

“Yeah, take the shot, Pond,” chimed in Amy.

“Oh, fuck you, Ponds,” said Clara, idly nailing her mallet into the ball and turning away with a discouraged frown. There was no way that… _wait, what?_

Jean watched in disbelief as the emerald-green croquet ball sailed ten feet through the air, hit a tree, and bounced directly through the wicket. Clara squealed. Mels cursed. Amy let out a low whistle.

“Looks like you’re the winner, Pond,” said the redhead with a laugh. “Good on you, mate.”

With a toss of her hair, Mels rolled her eyes. “So you got lucky _once_. Bust out the champagne! Sound the trumpets! God, Pond, why are you pulling on my dick?”

Before Clara could respond, Jean jumped between them. “Shouldn’t we motor if we want to be ready for the Remington Party?”

“Yeah,” agreed Amy, already tugging on her canary-yellow coat. “Put a lid on it, you two. Let’s go.”

 

 

* * *

  _Dear Diary,_

_Goddamn, what am I doing with my life? Bill Potts was a true friend and I sold her out for a bunch of porcelain dolls and diet-cokeheads._

* * *

 

 

“…And remember to get fish fingers!” called Mels from the TARDIS, tapping her lacquered red nails on the dashboard. “It’s not a party without fish fingers!”

Jean checked her wallet sadly. She only had three dollars left—not enough to fulfill Mel’s request and also buy herself chapstick and asprin. Goddamn friends and their goddamn needs. Sighing, she turned back to the other girl. “BQ or plain?”

“Are you crazy? BQ!” she hissed.

From the back seat, Clara stuck out her tongue. “Barbeque fish fingers? That’s the most disgusting thing I’ve ever heard of.”

Amy grinned playfully. “Are you kidding? Fish fingers are _liffffffe.”_

“Are you drunk already?”

“Your _face_ is drunk _,_ beyotch.”

“What the hell does that even mean?”

“It means you’re beauuuuuuuutiful…”

 _What._ Leaving the Ponds to bicker amongst themselves, Jean pulled open the door of the 7-Eleven and slipped inside. Let’s see… fish fingers. She imagined that those would be in the refrigerated section, but given the amount of chemicals in them, they probably had a fifty year shelf life. She pondered this for a while, beginning to compose a detailed letter in her head to the CEO of Fish Stix™ about the environmental hazards of fish farms, but ultimately remembered what she was here for and began heading toward the freezers on the far wall.

Only one package of BQ fish fingers remained, and though the package was torn sadly in a way that indicated that it had probably already been opened, she nicked it anyway. No point facing Mels’s wrath. A few isles away, a tub of vanilla custard caught her eye. _Brilliant._ Anyone who didn’t like fish fingers and custard had no idea what they were talking about.

Okay, she was good to go—except for that aspirin and Chapstick. Goddammit. Wait, did those outweigh the custard in terms of importance? Hmm… Probably. There probably wasn’t even a microwave at Remington… With a huff of annoyance, Jean turned back to the counter, only to slam straight into a very familiar face.

“Missy!” she squealed, delighted. The other girl’s blue eyes gleamed, and Jean wondered briefly if she was being stalked or something. _No, that only happened in movies._

“Want some fruit with that?” said Missy with a tiny smile, indicating the rather sparse selection of fresh produce at the front of the store. “It’s an awful lot of carbs. I try to stay away from those, myself. A pear, perhaps?”

Blech. Major point detraction from Missy’s attractiveness. Swallowing her disgust, Jean said, “Uh, I really ha—don’t care for pears. At all.” At the other girl’s disappointed face, she managed to choke out, “But if you’re nice, I’ll let you buy me some aspirin. And Chapstick.”

“Quite the practical one, aren’t you?” she commented, eyeing Jean with the sort of look that tended to get her more than a little hot and bothered. “And _caliente._ That’s Spanish for hot.”

_Okay. Flirting. Right. That’s okay. You can do this, Jean. You’re good at flirting. Just… flirt._

Actually, scratch the ‘good at flirting’ part, because apparently the sexiest thing she could come up with to say was, “You certainly know your way around convenience stores.” _Good one, Jean._

“Hmm,” said Missy, perusing the Chapstick selection at the checkout aisle. “There’s one across the street from Bellevue. Used to hang out there sometimes. Did you say cherry or peppermint?”

Wait, what?

“Bellevue?” Jean asked, trying to keep her voice light. “As in the _insane asylum?”_

“No. Hang on, I remember. You hate cherry, don’t you?” Missy’s eyes lit up triumphantly. “Peppermint Chapstick it is.”

Despite the distinct feeling that the other girl was trying to distract her, Jean couldn’t help but be a tiny bit flattered. She had indeed hated cherries when she was seven, along with a host of other fruits. Since then, she had mostly grown out of it—except pears. She would always hate pears. And probably apples, too.

“That thing you pulled in the caf today was pretty severe,” she said, leaning against the shelf. “A real gun? Really?”

With all the subtlety of a bulldozer, Missy pocketed both the Chapstick and a small bottle of aspirin and strode toward the door. “Ha,” she replied, eyes glittering. “I find that the extreme always seems to make an impression.”

“Hey!” shrieked the clerk. “You didn’t pay!”

Calmly, Missy responded, “And you didn’t pay for that energy drink you’re currently chugging down like a maniac either. Oh, how will you sleep with the guilt? Oh, wait, you won’t—that’s full of caffeine. Shall we call it even?”

Dumbfounded, the boy stuttered, “Uh… well, um, since I work here, I don’t have to pay for things…”

“Yes, you do.”

“… Well, I was _going_ to pay for it, I swear. I, um, never steal anything…”

“Whatever,” muttered Missy, threading her hand through Jean’s and marching them both out of the 7-Eleven. Jean shivered. Her hand was _very_ cold. Not unpleasantly so, just… cold.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Jean asked on a whim, hoping that her _very_ red face wouldn’t be as obvious in the darkness outside the store.

Missy just threw back her head and laughed. “Try again.”

Right. Jean took a deep breath. There was no turning back now. “So, do you have a… _girl_ friend?”

“I don’t know, do I?” said Missy coyly, pressing the Chapstick into Jean’s hand.

_Oh. Well, then._

To hide the sudden blush that insisted on choosing this specific time to spread down her neck, Jean rolled on the Chapstick, bending her head slightly away from Missy. God, what was she even supposed to _say_ to that?

“It tastes good,” she commented awkwardly, pressing the lid back on the tube.

Missy’s bright tone almost hid her disappointment. Almost. “Does it?” she said, blinking at Jean as if to ask _is that all you have to say?_

Now Jean felt bad. Was it bitchy to ignore the other girl’s obvious flirtation? Yes, it probably was, wasn’t it? It wasn’t as though-- well, she _liked_ Missy well enough, but she had just met her today for the first time in, what, ten years? Besides, being a lesbian was sort of a _crime_ in Ohio. Technically, ‘homosexual activity’ had been decriminalized a few years before, but only if it was ‘welcome’. Besides, the police force in Sherwood, being a bunch of pudding brains, didn’t seem to have anything better to do than arrest gay people. So it was a bit of a touchy subject.

 _But Missy is so… well, hot,_ a voice in her brain screamed. _And you’ve kissed her before, right? What’s the harm in just trying it out again?_ Maybe if she just played it by ear, flirted a little but didn’t promise anything...

“Maybe I’ll let you have a taste,” she whispered hoarsely, wary of Mels and the other Ponds just a few hundred feet away in the TARDIS. “Later.”

Judging by the other girl’s feral grin, Jean assumed that she would be held to her offer, but she never got a chance to find out definitively because the horn of the TARDIS screeched suddenly behind her.

“Coming!” she called, murmuring a hasty goodbye to Missy and scrambling back to the convertible. Mels did _not_ use the horn liberally, and this probably meant that she was pissed at Jeanie for some reason. Hopefully the fish fingers would serve as an olive branch of sorts—for now, at least.

* * *

 

“You _stupid fuck.”_

“You goddamn bitch!”

(Okay, scratch the olive branch, actually.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How should everybody die in a way that's appropriate to both Doctor Who and Heathers canon? Let me know in the comments! >:D  
> (I'm having way too much fun writing this, but I'm sure it's going to be really difficult to kill off all my favorite characters... Oh well, such is the obligation of a Heathers AU...)

**Author's Note:**

> Please let me know what you liked and any suggestions you have for the story going further! <3  
> Comments=Love


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